


Coffee and Contemplation

by dolos_0



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Anyways, Bookstores, F/M, Frank Castle is soft, Slight Violence, Written for Tumblr, i tried okay, so it is a reader insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 18:27:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29229975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dolos_0/pseuds/dolos_0
Summary: the last thing Frank Castles expects is to fall in love in a bookstore.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Reader
Kudos: 12





	Coffee and Contemplation

**Author's Note:**

> hmmm im transferring shit fron tumblr to ao3  
> im v proud of this one

Coffee, you mused, was one of life’s greatest pleasures. Coffee, books and music. You picked up your cup and sat down in the scratchy vinyl chair, bringing the bittersweet elixir to your lips. The steam skimmed off the boiling liquid and into your face, forming strange shapes that shifted and dissipated as you watched. You took a sip from the cracked mug, wincing slightly as the still-hot liquid burned your tongue.

“I don’t know why you insist on using that mug every day.” The voice interrupted your small moment of peace, and you turned to your coworker with a small smirk on your lips. “Hey, Marcy. You back from vacation then?” She laughed and walked to stand with you behind the desk.

“I sure am. No idea why I chose to come back though, this place is a shithole.” She poked your side, making you laugh. “Why do you love it so much?”

You took another small sip from your coffee, rubbing your thumb over the faded message on the side. The steam billowed upwards, briefly obscuring Marcy’s grinning face and you closed your eyes, reveling in the vivid darkness behind your eyelids. “You shouldn’t disrespect this place. It’s got good memories. It’s a happy place, Marce, and we gotta keep it happy.” You opened your eyes and pointed at her, cracked blue nail-polish three inches from her face. “And as your boss, I’m telling you to open up shop. Go on, shoo.”

She bobbed a sarcastic curtsy at you, and then retreated back through the stacks, black mary janes clacking on the polished wooden floors. You stood as well, mug still in hand, to lay out the children’s picture books at the front of the store. As you walked past, Marcy threw open the heavy curtains in front of the shop window, letting in the clawing sunbeams and illuminating the whirling dust motes that floated in the disturbed air. A rippling sigh came out of your mouth as you set your coffee down and picked up the box of picture books.

\---

It was late in the day, maybe six or seven pm, when the three men attempted to rob the store. Marcy had taken off early, thank god, and as the sun slowly set, you were preparing to call it a day, when the three men walked in. They were tall, wore black, and two of them were holding guns. Not, you thought, your average bookstore customer. 

The two with guns stayed by the door, and as the other one swaggered towards you, you thought about running, or screaming. You eventually decided against it, and instead stood stock still, frozen in fear as the two men by the door eyed you and toyed with the triggers of their guns. 

“Hey beautiful,” the gunless man purred, leaning on the desk towards you “We’d like to make a purchase.” You stammered and stared at him, eventually managing to piece together a sentence. “I-uh, take whatever you want. There isn’t much but-um, please don’t shoot me.” The man, who you decided to call Bastard, chuckles.  
“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, smiling awfully. “We’re not gonna shoot ya. Rough you up a bit, maybe,” he looked you up and down “Have a little fun…but where is the fun in shooting you?” You closed your eyes as he moved his hand up to touch your face. As if summoned by some hidden signal, the two with guns (Left and Right, respectively) pulled the curtains at the front of the store closed and moved up towards where you and the cash register stood.

\---

Frank was just passing the little bookstore tucked between two fast food restaurants, when he heard shouting from inside. Normally, he wouldn’t even slow down, but this time, he stopped. What sounded like a woman shouting, a man swearing. He crossed the street, keeping his head down to avoid the CCTV that lined the walls, and stood outside the windows, keeping to one side. Thick, heavy curtains covered the plate glass and the front door stood open, which was strange, since it was seven o’clock in New York. 

“Get off of me, you son of a bitch!” The woman shouted, and then the man’s voice came again, presumably the son of a bitch in question. In a high, nasally voice, like a mosquito, came the words “You broke my nose! You fucking- hit her again.” And then, a thump that could only be flesh-on-flesh. He sighed, looked around for a reason to leave this, and when the deserted street provided no escapes, he pushes open the door, making the bell jingle and causing the four occupants to turn and look at him. 

Directly in front of him, a tall skinny youth with a broken, bloody nose. Son-of-a-bitch, then. Behind him, are two hunks of muscle, each sporting a Beretta 950 pistol and a scratch on their face, presumably from the fourth occupant of the small store, a young woman with h/c eyes. She hung, arms gripped by the muscles, staring at him in the same manner that one would stare at a hardened criminal in a small cosy bookstore. Wait…

Eventually, the youth speaks, incredulously asking “Who the hell are you?”. Frank doesn’t answer, instead focusing on where the young woman’s shirt is ripped, exposing a smooth swathe of skin covered in fingerprint-shaped bruises. He narrows his eyes and shifts his weight, preparing to throw a punch. “I’m the one telling you to leave, while you still got the chance.”

The youth chuckles, gesturing to the muscles, who drop you and knuckle their way over to Frank. He watches you crawl behind the counter, and then, satisfied that you’re safe, he grasps the knife that’s tucked into his belt and attacks the son-of-a-bitch.

\---

Five minutes later, when all of the screaming has stopped, and you’re sure the three would-be criminals have fled, you hesitantly step out from behind the desk, shaking hands holding your shirt closed. The man in the black jacket, your saviour, is standing in the middle of the store. He strides over to you and looms, dark orbs (A/N: Asjjsjajakakakak im sorry i had to put at least one in there) searching yours. His hand, calloused and covered in blood, comes up and cups your face, and you flinch slightly. He removes his hand, leaving a faint smudge of red on your cheek, and asks in a gravelly voice, “Are you alright?”

Your e/c eyes dart to his face, then back to the ground. There’s a small lump on the floor which appears to be, upon closer inspection, an ear. You nod, and shudder, and he looks around, at the open door and at the dark stain on the floor that you really, really hope isn’t blood. The guy sighs softly, and takes off his jacket. He hands it to you and smiles, tentatively, as if the presence of a smile makes him any less intimidating. It doesn’t, by the way. “To cover up,” he says, gesturing to the soft leather “I mean, to cover up your shirt. Where it’s...ripped. Uh,” He stops, and waves vaguely at the doorway that the three men disappeared from.

“I’m gonna…” He takes a step towards the door, then another, the sheepish look on his face very out of place on a 6’1” human version of a grizzly bear. You nod, keeping your eyes fixed on the ear, and as he leaves, you allow the tension to fall from your shoulders and the tears to start flowing down your face.

That night, walking home, you grasp your pepper spray so hard it leaves a mark on your palm. The jacket smells like iron and old cologne and it’s wrapped tightly around you, obscuring all skin from your neck to halfway down your thigh. The collar is, by now, soaked by salty tears.

\---

The next morning, Marcy doesn’t comment on the bruises, or the new rug or the leather jacket folded up on the windowsill. You texted her last night and explained that some guys tried to rob the store, and you let the imprint of a hand that marrs your neck tell the rest of the story. She tiptoes around you as you sit at the desk with your coffee mug rereading Pride and Prejudice and crying in the backroom, alternatively.

The faded picture of Captain America on the side of the mug stares up at you, proclaiming in blue letters ‘You’re my superhero!!’. You set the cup down with a clink, and turn to the window, where raindrops race each other to splash on the wet concrete below.

Marcy glances at you and continues to shelve the new fantasy books. You’d gotten a shipment of first-edition Narnias and you had instructed Marcy to shelve them while you counted up the takings for the last week. When you had finished, you had offered to help Marcy, but she waved you off, so that was how you were, you behind the counter and her on her tiptoes reaching upwards, when the man from yesterday walked into the shop. You paused, cup halfway to your lips, and your eyes widened. He was much more broody today, not a trace of the awkwardly smiling man who loaned you his jacket.

Marcy turns to ask you a question, and instead comes face to face with him. She looks shocked, but only for a second, until she scowls at him, suspicious. “We’re closed” She snaps, wary of this tall man in dark clothing with hands that look to be the same size as the bruise around your throat. He raises an eyebrow and looks at you, seeking help against the feral college student that stands in front of him.

“I can come back later, I just wanted to check up on…” You step out from behind the desk and hurry over to him before Marcy stole his kneecaps. Before she goes for his throat, you tell her, “Uh, Marcy, this is the guy who saved me last night.” You turn to your friend and, like the sun rising over the snowy steppe of Russia, realisation dawns and she goes into the back room. As you look back at the man, you remember you never got his name, and you never gave him yours. He runs a hand through his hair, wet from the rain.

“Hello again,” you say, looking up at him “I thought you might be back. Do you want your jacket?” He glances over your shoulder to where it’s folded, put away with care like a precious thing, and he feels his heart warm a little. He nods quickly and watches you weave your way between piles of books to pick it up. There are books everywhere, in this store, on the floor, on the shelves, on the tables and, as he watches you cradle the worn leather as you navigate your way back towards him, he sees that there’s a book laying, previously hidden by his jacket. 

You hand him back the jacket, your fingers brushing his gently as it passes from one hand to another. Suddenly, he’s desperate to stay here, in this tiny dust-covered bookstore. He picks up the nearest hardback he can reach, and asks hesitantly “Can I buy this?”. You seem surprised, he notices, and regrets his question, but when you nod and lead him over to the cash register, his heart, broken so many times by so many things, grows warmer. 

“Wuthering Heights. Interesting choice. Didn’t peg you down for a romance type of guy.” Her voice calls his attention back to him and he snaps back into focus, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. She doesn’t accept the money, though, saying with a wry smirk “You paid pretty well for that yesterday. Thank you for that, by the way.” He chuckles, looking up at the high ceiling

“It was the least I could do. Hey, what’s your name?” You tell him and it’s almost like being introduced to an old friend. He holds out his hand, and you grasp it, your slim fingers almost disappearing into his massive paw. “It’s nice to meet you. My name is Frank”

And everything was okay.


End file.
